


Glitter and Ketchup

by VulpesVulpes713



Series: A Collection of Klance [12]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Fluff, Laith, Lance (Voltron) Flirts, M/M, No Angst, Voltron, all fluff, another diner au?, as always, keith is weak for it, keith the waiter, klance, lance the tipsy customer, vld, you bet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-24
Updated: 2018-04-24
Packaged: 2019-04-27 10:42:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14423685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VulpesVulpes713/pseuds/VulpesVulpes713
Summary: Lance is a flirt and Keith is weak for it, what more can I say?





	Glitter and Ketchup

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be short (like 1k?) but I think we all know by now I suck at that.

Keith works night shift as a waiter at some shitty small-town diner.

 

He doesn’t mind it so much, seeing as the people who venture in during the wee hours of the morning aren’t ones who typically partake in conversation, so he can do his job without the same level of fake happy required during the day.

 

But there are occasions when more is needed.

 

Occasions such as when three teenagers waltz in, having clearly just been at the club downtown; limbs swaying with the lingering effects of intoxication and an abundance of glow sticks adoring their bodies.

 

One in particular, the tall lanky guy, seems to have gone a little overboard with the glitter.

 

Keith can already feel a headache forming before the trio is even seated, and of course he ends up being their server. He wonders if it’s possible to be naturally cursed at rock paper scissors.

But he slaps on a smile and hands out some menus, ignoring the obnoxious voices of the group as their conversation carries on unhindered.

 

It’s when he asks what they’d like for drinks that the attention shifts.

 

Glitter Guy, whose eyes are sparkling nearly as much as the rest of him, appears to do a double-take, mouth falling open slightly as he takes in Keith’s uniform.

 

And yeah. He’s used to that as well.

 

The smallest of the three, glasses large enough to act as bicycle wheels, nudges the bigger one, who must end up kicking Twilight Wannabe under the table. It’s not subtle by any means, but the guy recovers smoothly enough, leaning across his friends and lowering his voice as Keith prepares himself for some drunken slur.

 

“What was that sweetums?” he asks, and Keith fights the urge to roll his eyes.

 

He’s had ample practice dealing with vodka fueled flirts; knows not to think much of them, no matter how attractive the speaker.

So he repeats himself without falter.

 

“What can I get you to drink?”

 

The smallest one answers first, ordering a glass of orange juice after throwing a hearty groan at Sparkles. Then the other one goes, asking, incredibly politely, for water. And then everyone turns to the blue-eyed miscreant, and Keith almost laughs as he realizes he’s not the only one waiting to hear what sort of nonsense is about to be spewed.

 

“Can I get a tall glass of _you?”_

 

Yep. There it is.

 

Two mutual huffs of annoyance sound up from his companions, and then all eyes are on Keith as they await his reaction. Only, there isn’t one.

The request goes in one ear and out the other, a skill honed from nightly practice.

 

And as cute as Grinning McGee is, Keith is immune. Or rather, he’s built himself a pretty impregnable resting bitch face that allows shameless interactions such as this to be met with a neutral air of uncaring.

 

Usually he would wait for a proper order, but tonight he’s feeling a bit restless, and decides _fuck it, I’ll just bring him water._

 

But buddy boy doesn’t need to know that, so Keith pretends to write down the outlandish order on his notepad and informs them he’ll be right back with their drinks.

 

He can tell from the resounding silence that all three are confused, but as he disappears behind the kitchen door, a few snickers can be heard from their table, and when Keith sneaks a peak he sees the two friends poking fun of the failed flirt.

 

He almost feels bad about not responding to it.

 

But responding is something he can’t allow himself to do. He’s learned his lesson with drunk patrons; has dialed too many numbers left on napkins to know that the next morning brings with it a series of regrets, blurred memories and conversations best left forgotten.

 

Keith is just a pretty face to these people. An opportunity to show off in front of friends.

 

So his armour is thick.

 

But as he watches, he notices something different this time. Instead of shrug off the teasing and continue whatever conversation they had been having prior to the interruption that is Keith's job, Sweet Talker almost looks defeated.

 

His smile has faded away to a withered pout, elbows now resting on the table to support the weight of his head as he sighs deeply.

 

Keith can’t hear their exact words from across the diner, but he’s learned enough from people watching to be able to read lips.

 

And when asked _“what did you expect”_ by his friends, the man answers with a mournful _“nothing, I guess.”_

 

_“Then why did you do it?”_

 

A shrug, followed by what Keith makes out to be “ _because one day maybe someone will respond.”_

 

The strangers mouth is still moving, but he turns away to stare out the window, and his words are lost.

It doesn’t matter what else he had been about to say. Keith feels like a prick regardless.

 

_But why should I?_

 

It makes no sense. How many times has he been left high and dry after a night of mutual flirting? How many ridiculous pick-up lines has he been subjected to that he’s had to ignore?

He shouldn’t feel guilty about not reacting, and yet, he does.

 

_But why?_

 

Maybe it’s because he’s been in that position. Watching someone walk away without a care.

 

Maybe because he knows, in some way or another, how that rejection feels.

 

Whatever the reason, it stirs Keith into motion, and he decides, even though he _knows_ how it will end, that he’ll play along for a bit.

 

Besides, customers should always leave with a full stomach and smile on their face, or so the motto says. Keith’s just doing his job as a responsible, caring employ who upholds the company policies.

It has nothing to do with the curious tug in his chest that followed witnessing the dimming of the shimmer of the boy in booth ten. He absolutely _does not_ simply miss that toothy grin and carefree persona.

 

Or so he says, yet Keith still finds himself going out of his way to find exactly what he needs in order to respond; to fill the order of ‘a tall glass of you’.

 

He finds a discarded children's menu, a pair of scissors, and nearly whoops with victory when he finds what he’s looking for within a subheading on the colouring pages, cutting it out and setting it in the biggest glass he can find. All it takes after that is to fill the other drinks and return to the table with the order.

 

He can feel them all turn to stare as he approaches with his tray, likely wondering what he brought in place of the flirtatious request. Little do they know that Keith’s fulfilled what was asked without any deviation.

 

He makes a show of placing their drinks down in front of them.

 

“An orange juice for you,” he says as he hands it over. “A water over here,” he slides it down the table, turning to catch the eyes of the one who started it all, feeling his lips twitch up slightly as he imagines what the reaction will be.

 

He sets down the cup in front of the boy, watching his focus dart from Keith’s face to his hand, before reaching out tentatively to inspect what he’s been given. And when he does his confusion only grows, brows dipping low over his eyes as slim fingers reach in to pluck out a neatly cut letter ‘u’ from the bottom of the cup.

 

“Um..” he starts, holding it up for them all to see, and Keith keeps his poker face on as the inevitable question is asked. “What is this?”

 

Perfect. His chance. His opportunity to play the game, maybe even win it at this point. He clears his throat lightly, gesturing with his free hand down to the table.

 

“It’s a tall glass of ‘u’, just like you ordered.”

 

It takes a moment for the joke to hit and sink in fully, but when it does, oh boy…

 

The booth cracks up, earning them the collective stares of the rest of the staff and a few other customers. Keith allows a smile to slip past his armour as he watches that grin return in ten-fold, crinkling the corners of bright blue eyes drowned out in the shitty fluorescent lighting of the diner. He’s not supposed to think it, because thinking it is a step in a direction that only leads to disappointment, but Keith does it anyway.

 

Hears the thought echo across his mind before he can fully stop to consider it.

 

_He has a nice laugh._

 

And once it’s there it’s there, encased in cement and stored away in the files of his brain that are only accessed in moments of bittersweet remembrances and what-ifs. Keith knows he’ll regret this in the morning when he’s trying to sleep; knows the sounds of joy radiating out of this guys mouth will repeat over and over like the taunting bells of ‘I told you so’.

 

His brain will scold him while his heart curses the silence, and it’ll be a restless few hours of regret.

 

But those are future Keith problems. For now he lets himself enjoy the moment, proud that his joke was so well met.

 

And yeah, maybe they’re only laughing because they’re still impacted by the effects of alcohol, but it’s still a win in Keith’s books.  He’s just glad they seem to appreciate the effort.

 

When the commotion dies down to a trickle of chuckles and breathy sighs, Keith changes course, bringing the focus back on task.

 

He _does_ have a job to do after all, and he knows how hungry folks can get after partying. So he brings out his notepad and tucks away the drink tray beneath his arm, clicking his pen to get their attention.

 

“Are we ready to order?” he asks, watching as Blue Eyes takes out his phone and opens Snapchat, likely about to document Keith’s gag. For some reason that stirs something within him, like the knowledge that come morning that photo will still be there, and how he might end up in the hazy recollections of this guys night.

 

He tries to suppress the thought, lest his hopes rise too high to ground again.

 

They end up ignoring the menus altogether in favour of ordering a large plate of fries and cheese sticks, paired with onion rings and basically anything greasy and cheap. Keith knows the drill, and writes an easy ‘drunk food’ down on his notepad.

 

He’s about to leave when he pauses, turning back to the man still grinning down at his cup.

 

“Did you want anything to actually drink? That particular choice doesn’t do much for thirst.”

 

“Oh I beg to differ,” the man winks, and Keith leaves with a shrug that hides the jolt in his chest, wondering what the hell is happening to that armour he’s spent so much time perfecting.

 

It shouldn’t be crumbling so easily!

 

The rest of the night is spent with limited interactions, seeing as another group wanders in that demands Keith’s attention as well. Still, he can’t help but notice the lingering feeling of eyes on his back whenever he’s walking between tables, and manages to catch fleeting shades of blue before heads are hastily turned.

 

But again, it’s nothing he’s not used to. Staring is part of the job. Yet, for some reason this time it’s different, and Keith has to mentally reprimand himself about not acting so coy; to quit making so many rounds between booths just for an excuse to walk by and shoot innocent smiles at the ever-sparkling face of Cup Man.

 

He blatantly ignores the voice in his head that warns him to stop.

 

 _No_ , it says, _quit moving your hips so much, no one walks that way naturally._

 

And: _Oh perfect yeah, lean over the counter to get the ketchup instead of walking the extra two steps._

 

But there’s another part of his mind whispering helpful hints that Keith puts into action, shoving aside his rationality in favour of prolonging those stares.

 

_Tuck your hair behind your ear next time you ask if they need a refill._

 

_Ask how their night was..where they went, who they danced with._

 

_Only smile for him. No one else. He needs to know he’s the only one getting this treatment._

 

It’s fun, actually, even though Keith knows it’ll end soon enough, and he’ll drown his sorrows in gravy and soda later. But the time comes when the bill is asked for, and he feels the helium in his shoes slowly slip away, until he’s back on the ground, back to the reality of the situation.

 

_This was just a drunk guy who happened to be cute. You felt bad for him and now you have to pay the price._

 

A sad truth, but a truth nonetheless.

 

The smallest one pays, grumbling about a lost bet as they take out a card and swipe it in the machine. Keith tries not to let his disappointment show as they all don their coats and head towards the door. He’s about to begin cleaning up their table when he hears a tap on the counter, and turns to see him.

 

Sparkle Lips. Sapphire Eyes. Tall Boy Brown Hair.

 

_Wow I need to know his name._

 

“Can I grab the receipt?” he asks, and Keith blinks as he processes the request. For some reason he’d been expecting a different question.

 

“Oh, sure, yeah-” he tears it from the machine, handing it over as the other two loiter in the entrance way. He’s about to wish them a good rest of their night when he notices the man inspecting the receipt intensely, forehead creasing as eyes scan over the paper.

 

“Is...there something wrong?” Keith wonders hesitantly, knowing he put their order in properly. But the stranger shakes his head, pointing to something and slamming the receipt back down on the table.

 

“Aha!” he proclaims, loudly enough that Keith flinches. “I knew it.”

 

“Knew what?” he asks, leaning over to see what might be the problem.

 

“You didn’t charge me for the drink.”

 

“Uh…” Keith glances up at him, folding his arms over his chest to try and quiet his pulse, which he knows must be audible from this close. “You mean the empty glass?”

 

“Nah, it wasn’t empty, remember?” he prods, wagging his brows as he tilts forward. “There was a little you in it.”

 

Keith can’t hide the smile that splits his cheeks, and ignores as another chunk of his armour shatters to pieces.

 

Whatever. He’ll fix it later.

 

“It’s on the house,” he hears himself say, and blue eyes latch onto his.

 

“Awfully considerate of you. But I think I’ll have to double check with your manager. Do you have a number I can call?”

 

Keith frowns, stomach dropping as he thinks maybe this guy is being more serious than sly.

 

“For my manager?”

 

“Yeah,” the guy shrugs nonchalantly. “Though I think I’d prefer yours.”

 

_Wait...what?_

 

“Why would you call me if you had a question for my manager-”

 

He breaks off as the stranger begins to laugh, running a hand over the back of his neck as he shifts his weight to his other foot.

 

“I actually just wanted your number,” he admits confidently, “but I’m realizing now that this wasn’t my smoothest build-up. Blame the buzz.”

 

Keith feels heat rise in his face, and hopes the red of his uniform will help mask it.

 

“Oh..uh-”

 

“So how bout it?”

 

“Um...look,” he starts, tucking his hair behind his ear nervously. He’s elated to have been asked for his number, but unfortunately he knows how this scene plays out. He gives his digits, then spends the next several hours anticipating a text or a call or even a friend request on Facebook, telling himself that it’s taking so long because it’s still late. That whoever he’s waiting for is still asleep.

 

That excuse can only cover so many days though, and Keith always ends up binge eating ice cream as he wonders what the hell happened.

 

But again, he’s nothing more than a late-night stop. An entertainment for an hour or so and then a memory as cloudy as the drinks consumed to reach the level of intoxication it took to walk into the diner in the first place. The drunk guys that flirt and ask for his number never end up using it, and Keith has learned to either avoid any scenario in which they can ask or else make up random strings of digits and handing them over on napkins.

 

However, like with most of the night since this group walked in, this time feels different. Keith can’t bring himself to scribble a fake number down or blatantly refuse the guy. Mostly because he doesn’t _want_ to.

 

So instead he tells the truth, or a version of it anyway.

 

“I don’t really like to give my number out when people come in drunk. It never-” he trails off, changing routes so he doesn’t bore this guy with his sob story. “Sorry. It’s just a policy of mine.”

 

“Oh,” the stranger hums, pursing his lips and making a few sputtering sounds before leaning more fully on the counter. If he’s upset he’s not showing it, which is commendable, Keith thinks. “So no number if I’m tipsy?”

 

“No, sorry.”

 

“What if I’m sober?” he challenges, and Keith raises a skeptical brow.

 

“You’re not though. I watched you try to stuff an onion ring with the filing from the cheese stick and almost cry when it wouldn’t work.”

 

“I know I’m not _now,_ ” the man interrupts, waving his hands around frantically before freezing as his face flushes scarlet. “And you _saw_ that?! Oh god...I don’t know if I should be embarrassed or flattered that you were spying on me.”

 

“I wasn’t spying!”

 

“Mhhmm,” the man replies, clearly smug and not at all convinced. “But anyway, if you give me like…” he pulls out his phone, raising his brows as he appears to consider some topic at depth. “Like an hourish? I’ll be good as new! Clear headed and ready to hang.”

 

It takes Keith a moment to understand what’s being suggested, and when he clues in that this guy is proposing to come back later when he’s sobered up just to get his number, his composure slips, and a wide grin breaks whatever was remaining of his armour.

 

“You don’t have to-”

 

“I want to! And besides, all it will take is some water, a shower, and a bag of chips and I’ll be good as gold! Sober as October!”

 

“That doesn’t even make sense,” Keith giggles, astounded that such a noise would ever escape his throat. But the stranger seems to like it, and winks as he taps a beat out on the counter with his hands.

 

“Doesn’t have to. I’m drunk, remember? But in T-minus sixty minutes I’ll be a whole new person! Glitter free and hating my past self for taking all those shots but ready to find out more than just your name.”

 

That has Keith pausing.

 

“You-wait. You know my name?”

 

The man snorts, tapping to something on his chest.

 

“Name tag sweetums. Or should I say _Keith._ ”

 

And if Keith wasn’t red before he one hundred percent is now.

 

“Right, yeah,” he mumbles, embarrassed, and watches as the stranger edges away from the front desk, walking backward towards the entrance where his friends are still waiting. “But wait, I don’t know yours!”

 

“My name?” the man asks, and when Keith nods he beams widely, tilting his head in the direction of their table. “Don’t worry sweetums, I wrote it down for you.”

 

The helium is back, filling the soles of his shoes and lifting him up above the world.

 

_Sweetums. I could get used to that…_

 

But then another thought it taking over, and Keith frowns as he turns in the direction of their booth.

 

“Wrote it down with what?” he quips, and sees the glittered-stranger bite his lower lip in what could almost be a sheepish expression.

 

“Uh..I vaguely remember ketchup…”

 

“ _Excuse me?!”_

 

“And I have a feeling future me is gonna need to do some serious ass-kissing to get that number,” the man laments as he slaps a hand to his forehead, groaning loudly. “Ugh. _Idiot!_ It seemed like such a good idea at the time. But whatever, that’s future Lance’s problem-oh..shit.”

 

Keith smirks triumphantly as the stranger, _Lance_ it would seem, hastily moves towards the exit, shoving his friends as a signal to go.

 

“Anyway bye I’ll see you in an hour! Please don’t be mad about the mess I was trying to be endearing, and I’ll make it up to you with coffee okay?” He pauses in the doorway, grin toothy and wide. “Also I may have left something else at our booth so if you could just grab it and hold onto it for me it’d be greatly appreciated! Who knows, it might even belong to you. Be back soon sweetums!” And with that the he’s gone, door swinging shut behind him.

 

“Oh my god,” Keith mumbles under his breath, trying desperately to find any ounce of annoyance to direct at Lance. There should be some, since there’s apparently a giant mess waiting to be dealt with back at their table, but as Keith wanders back over to their booth, wondering what Lance had left behind, all he can find within himself is a shameless amount of eagerness.

 

It doesn’t even fade when he sees the messy scrawl of ‘Lance’ laid out in ketchup over the table top, as he’d been warned about. In fact, seeing the name has Keith grinning all over again, wondering what the heck sort of person this Lance guy could be to think this was endearing.

 

_Except that it’s working…_

 

But what really has Keith sold is when he finds the thing Lance had left behind. It’s a heart fashioned out of glowsticks, propped up against the salt and pepper shakers in weakly glowing shades of red and blue. And usually Keith wouldn’t put much more thought into it, passing it off as trash and a meaningless byproduct of drunken boredom, except that Lance’s words are ringing through his head, threatening to start wildfires in his chest.

 

_“Who knows, it might even belong to you.”_

 

It’s sappy, Keith knows, but he tucks the heart in his pocket anyway, biting back a smile as he imagines what it would be like if Lance were being honest; if he meant anything more by the gesture. He’ll find out soon enough, apparently, seeing as a promise had been made to return in an hour.

 

Whether or not Lance does is another matter-

 

“Hey Keith?”

 

He freezes, whipping around at the sound of his name and the familiarity of the voice saying it. Sure enough, Lance is standing behind him, hands clenched in front of himself as he smiles bashfully down at the ground.

 

“Lance?” He hates the pitch his voice takes. “Did you forget something else or-”

 

“No! Or well, not really…” he gestures down at the table, towards the mess of condiments and fries leftover from tipsy trifles. “I just felt really bad about leaving you with this to clean up and so I figured it was the _least_ I could do to stick around and help instead of bugger off somewhere else.”

 

_Oh..._

 

“You really don’t need to-”

 

“I think I do,” Lance cuts him off, beginning to pile up dishes neatly on the table. “And besides, I had every intention of coming back here anyway. Now I can hang out with you a little longer and not give you such a horrible first impression of me. I promise I’m not usually this much of a slob…”

 

Keith knows he should argue; reassure Lance that he’s dealt with worse and tell him to go home and get some sleep. But part of him is feeling a tad bit self-indulgent, and if Lance wants to help then Keith can’t really deny him. The customer’s always right, right?

 

So instead he smiles, handing Lance a cloth as he picks up the stack of dishes to bring to the back.

 

“Alright then, sure. I appreciate it.”

 

“Awesome,” Lance grins, setting about wiping down the table. Keith’s about to head off when he stops, realizing Lance might begin to suffer the side effects of a hangover without any proper hydration. And no matter how charming he is now, Keith doesn’t want him suffering through a pounding headache on his account later on. In fact, he wants to do everything in his power to ease Lance’s transition from drunk to sober; to take care of him even.

 

“Hey, do you want anything to drink? Coffee? Tea? Water maybe?”

 

Lance considers for a long moment before leaning back against the booth chair, shooting finger guns his way before speaking.

 

“How bout a tall glass of you?”

 

Keith pauses, expression knowing as he shoots Lance a quick wink.

 

“Maybe,” he shrugs, letting the word fall slowly from his lips. “Let’s see where the night takes us, shall we?”

 

He’s certain the flush in Lance’s cheeks is _not_ because of the alcohol this time. In fact the blush is so deep that Keith is almost convinced Lance has taken the ketchup from off the table and used it as a face cream.

 

He knows that’s not the case however, as Lance’s skin still shines with the overload of sparkles decorating his person, looking like someone tried to make a disco ball out of a mannequin painted red. It’s cute. _Lance_ is cute. And Keith is glad his armour has melted away. He was tired of wearing it anyway.

 

He lets his stare linger for a moment longer before turning away towards the kitchen, grateful for how different the night turned out.

 

He thinks he might like Lance already, just based off what few interactions they’ve shared. But his shift is almost over, and with dawn comes an uncertainty of how things will unfold between them. Maybe it won’t work out, or maybe it will. Maybe he’s finally found someone willing to call him the next day, or maybe not.

 

He’s not too worried. He might be, had he the mental capacity to spare for such things, but as it is all he can think about is Lance.

 

Tall, leggy Lance, who likes cheesy pick-up lines and glowsticks and laughing at cut out ‘u’’s.

 

Kind, thoughtful Lance, who feels bad even when intoxicated about leaving his messes behind.

 

And cute, endearing Lance, who apparently sticks his tongue out when he’s concentrating, as he’s doing now while cleaning the table. Keith stifles a giggle as he watches from the kitchen, admiring the shape of his body as it leans over the booth. Lance wipes the back of his hand over his mouth at one point, leaving behind a smudge of red from the remnants of his condiment name. He doesn’t seem to notice it’s there, and Keith debates on whether or not to tell him.

 

Maybe it would be best to show him.

 

He heads back to the table wondering what it might be like to kiss lips made of glitter and ketchup.   


**Author's Note:**

> yes. Glitter and ketchup would likely be a terrible taste combination.  
> You aren't crazy for thinking that.
> 
>  
> 
> [my tumblr](https://www.vulpes--vulpes@tumblr.com)


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